


One Match to Burn

by horse



Category: Dark Souls (Video Games), Dark Souls I
Genre: ???? i guess LMAO, Dubious Consent, Kinda, Tentacle Sex, dubcon, is it manus?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-04
Updated: 2018-02-04
Packaged: 2019-03-13 09:52:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,679
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13568097
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/horse/pseuds/horse
Summary: I'm going to hell, blah blah blah, bing bang, Artorias and the abyss make it official.





	One Match to Burn

**Author's Note:**

> I'm bad at just writing porn and throwing plot to the wind, but I wanted to put myself to the test

Something rumbled softly. He would have felt it, beneath the metal of his sabatons, were they met with earth; this, not being the case, was the first thing to jostle Artorias into the present.

Ah, yes. He was still in the chasm. That much was evident in the obscene lack of light… of anything that so much as twinkled. He could feel that his wrists were bare… he felt lighter. Perhaps he had lost some of his armour; certainly his greaves and gauntlets, noting the missing weight. Despite that, he couldn’t move more than to twist in whatever held him, which felt much like the face of bark and root… abrasive in some places, but soft like mud in others, that came away with struggle. He could feel, too, the smoothness of stone… there was cobbled earth in this place, but he had known that already. Was he against a wall? A cliffside? Artorias only knew that he wasn’t upside down, and felt distinctly… diagonal. Not fully upright… tortured with the false promise of projection into some hellish direction… but there was nothing here and nowhere to go. And certainly nothing moving him.

Sif was not here, but he knew exactly where that furry fellow was, and the contentment that washed over him at the surety made him almost smile, deep in the sapphire cave of fabric that still framed his face. His chest heaved with a sigh, and then he heard another rumble.. Clearer, this time. Not to be confused with delusion, this time. He was not alone.

_Thou has’t wrought his demise._

Was it speech? Artorias felt the words more than heard them, filling his chest, and then leaving it barren.

“I live and breathe, bane of Oolacile!” He spat immediately in response, tugging in vain with his left arm against unsympathetic restraints. Had he fallen? It seemed the case, and he made silent prayer for his comrades, for his Lord. His end would not mean their own, but it was still a blow… he couldn’t accept it yet. There had always been a way, up until now - there had always been light. It had existed, or he had bid it to exist with the power inbued in him by his radiant master.

_Be assured, that is of no consequence._

The words made him still, and sent a shiver through him. Something about the finality of them. The Father of the Abyss was not known for his levelness; something in Artorias, however, was gravely certain it was that creature’s voice which called to him. Thrummed in him. Slithered between tendons, through veins.

“Act, then.” The knight’s voice was weakened, and perhaps that was why the wind struck him, like a flock of knives… it wasn’t wind at all, but darkness, tearing at him. His helmet plummeted, glinting before it was engulfed in whatever lay wait below.

A coolness rushed to his head, black hair coming undone, a new curtain, melding with the inky abyss all around. Gods, when was the last time it had hung like this? He couldn’t remember. Pity that this might be the last time - for all Ornstein’s joking, he recalled an admiring glint in the man’s eye when he’d first untied it, let it spill over his collarbones. Gold running through obsidian; idiot hadn’t had the mind to remove his damned gauntlets, though Artorias had marked that as a compliment at the time. Getting Ornstein to be _fond_ without puffing his chest or cracking a joke to ease the severity, no matter how warranted, was a miracle the likes of which they rarely saw. 

Times had been so grim. To have those moments back… to have them all back, would be everything.

_...must be thoroughly broken._

It travelled upwards, echoing, as if spoken by a hundred voices, and he was hit with darkness once more, knicking his skin… his armor… he heard the too-close clinks and thunks of something hitting what was still intact. More fell. Artorias was no longer certain what was still attached to his person… his limbs ached, and he no longer trusted their sense, nor that of the muscles which supported them.

“The will of Gwyn cannot be broken.” In the face of everything, those words were like new, solid armour, and he felt himself again. Warm, and strong, and hopeful. It was true. He believed himself, still, without a sliver of a doubt, and it seemed to upset the abyss itself, like ripples over a long still pond. No reply came to his bold doctrine, only the faint rumblng, and then a sound like a weapon cutting through air.

It was a hand, or something like the shape of it. Artorias tensed, feeling the shadow of it overcome him, even now, but it never came down as he had expected. Instead, it simply vanished. Something shook; he could not be sure it was ground, or wall… but suddenly, whatever held him fast began to shift - sentient vines, stuttering into life and sliding to accommodate themselves. In the mayhem of it, he tried to move his legs, to no avail, of course. His heart began to beat faster, chest rising and falling too quickly - he knew it was too quick, and yet he couldn’t discipline himself into a steadier rhythm. He was too affected by the unknown, and the fear of it that grew like a disease inside him.

 _Oh, Artorias..._ It was a sweet, familiar sound, and only faintly inhuman. A quartet, and very far below that sound, something screetching awkwardly - an inexerienced bow over unresined strings. A comrade? It couldn’t have been. Not here. The voice erupted into laughter, echoing from all angles. Artorias felt his teeth clench, felt sweat at his neck and brow.

“Do what you will!” Wishing it had sounded less frantic, he fought back the urge to struggle again, lest he seem as unravelled as he surely was. And as if in reply, the laughter became booming, so loud it was menacing, before it stopped abruptly to make room for a singular voice.

_As you wish._

The restraints rumbled again, but did not move. The abyss was quiet for a beat, leaving Artorias to hear himself breathe in the chasm, chainmail torn and hanging, in places, as his hair did, chausses in no better shape. The fabric bunched at his knees and ankles where the vine-like things held him. There was fabric lodged in a similar fashion by his wrists and shoulders, but the tunic itself was no more, only evidenced by those scraps. Under the chainmail was nary but a thin sheet of cotton to shield skin from metal. He looked like he’d been properly mauled. Perhaps he had, by dark magic rather than claws, but it all felt the same. Yielded the same pitiful image.

Something curled around his left ankle, and he instinctively yanked; it only hurt to do that, still in a firm grip. His head fell forwards with a frustrated sound, and his body tried to move of it’s own accord to escape whatever new sensation this was. Wet but not wet. Smooth but not wholly untextured… it felt like a snake with no scales. 

Then there was another. And another. 

Artorias tried to keep track of the things, but they moved like snakes - quickly and with purpose. That purpose, unbeknownst to him, became all the more obscure as the appendages crossed and uncrossed over his torso. They seemed to run every possible course, leaving no shred of visible skin untouched - and gods was the touch strange… they were warm… unexpectedly warm. Perhaps he was about to be strangled. Or torn apart? He couldn’t guess. What would be worse, anyway?

Something tore. With a small rush of air, he realised it was the left leg of his chausses. Then the right. Artorias swallowed, trying to move again, only managing to twist and twitch somewhat. The appendages continued unbothered, tearing away at the still remaining material before slithering with life anew, curling around him almost happily, warm and soft. Tightening ever so gently when they curled enough about him.

Something slid brazenly from down his back and right down the last bit of cloth he’d been spared, continuing to brush against his dick, and then stopped there as if assessing something. His chest jumped reflexively, and Artorias swallowed, equal parts confused and horrified. In the precious few seconds he was given to sort out a proper response, there was pressure at his backside. More torn cloth. More cool air. He was about to cry out in objection before remembering himself; he bit his tongue, straining his back to move himself away from whatever was trying to get into his ass - to no avail, obviously. 

Whatever it was took its time, circling and circling and… it was methodical, and mesmerising - Artorias was distracted by the gentle and persistant pattern of it before he had to shake himself back to decency, trying to shift himself in another direction. The appendage just kept writhing as it had been. Annoyed, Artorias moved to shift again, but spasmed again at what slithered around the base of his dick and squeezed.

“Nngh-!”

The little noise echoed against boundless dark. Even so, he felt deeply ashamed by it - how he wanted to cry out, but his pride would have none of it. Jaw tight, he tried to pull himself away from the moment… difficult once he was being effectively jerked by this… this… what? He could barely catch a glimpse of any of it, only knew it felt like snakes that multiplied endlessly, promising his mind as much torment as his body.

Fuck’s sake, he couldn’t stop his damned body’s reaction, after all this training, all these lives served in paramount discipline and loyalty. His hips began to buck after some time, and just then, he felt pressure at the head of his dick, like something had stoppered it. Afraid to look down, he screwed his eyes shut instead, swallowing all the hideous, traitorous sounds that threatened his dignity. Whatever was busy at his ass suddenly tripped out of what had become agonising monotony, and now instead began to wiggle precariously there before pushing against him. 

This couldn’t be happening. Of all the torturous things that awaited him in this infernal place, lost to anything holy, he could not have imagined a fate like this laying wait for him.

Slow to the knowledge, Artorias realised the aforementioned methodical and rhythmic motion had coated the affected area in something slick, and slightly… numbing? 

There was no pain at the intrusion, only a wave of pins and needles that rippled out and then back in; it became an ebb and flow as the slickened limb moved back and forth. The heat of it jarred him, turned his brain into a useless marsh; cotton and haze. He heard himself grunt, teeth bared, and then suck in a breath. The limb at his throbbing cock didn’t let up - almost seemed to squeeze tighter - and it was agonising in it’s own right. Processing a thought became a herculean feat, much less trying to choke and swallow down moans that kept bubbling up. He almost wished something would stuff his mouth and relieve him of this tortuous duty, but no such dubious kindness was granted. Things only got worse when he felt more slithering. Mor eof his body being toyed with - the touch was so… _kind_... pleasing… selfless, in a sense, though Artorias imagined whatever was attacking him had no real self or sense of it. Fragmented ideas rattled in his skull, lashes fluttering as he fought now to keep his eyes open in hopes that it would help him focus. He felt unbearably hot underneath an unforgiving sheet of hair, flowing with the movement of his body at each maddening thrust.

There were things at his chest… sliding, sucking, nipping. These things… had teeth? Or some of them did. Gods. He couldn’t _focus_. A nip at his hipbone made his lower half jerk again. He winced, coughed out a moan, strained against the iron grip on his wrists and shoulders.

How much time had passed… it felt like it had been hours - maybe it had been minutes, or maybe he was right - it didn’t matter, did it? All he could think about for a handful of moments was the thick thing fucking him out of his veritable mind, hot and pulsing, operating at a ruthless cadence, threatening a symphony out the other end of him. Threatening, threatening… god it was so _hot_ , he could feel sweat dripping everywhere, down his back and around his thighs, and it seemed that whatever was writhing all over him revelled in the excess of it.

Another push. Something else was trying to enter him, the first limb still pushing on tirelessly. Artorias nearly lost his wits, stuttering at the discomfort and sheer comprehension of what was happening - too soon, it fit itself inside, somehow, and joined it’s compatriot in motion. The burn that followed forced his head low, shoulders tensed, back as arched as allowed. The pain subsided to something less pronounced until it became dulled by now familiar pleasure; the moan he thought he had bit back was almost visible it was so loud. He wanted to die. He wanted to come.

“Fuck, _fuck_...” He whined, trying to think of anything else - of his home, of his duty to his king and lord… of Ornstein… anything at all… but the images came and slipped away, burnt scraps of memories that broke apart, scorched and blackened and one with the engulfing abyss. However much he tried to cling to them, faster and faster they crumbled into apathetic dust.

There was a flash of white and then intense, almost painful pleasure; something had been tapped deep within him and caused his body, his muscles, to tremble and tense and clench. Again. He was crying out, something inaudible; he couldn’t have heard anyway, far away from himself, from the biting reality of his present. He was in Anor Londo, awash with gold light, blinded by the splendor of it. He was a rock at a shoreline, hit again and again with high, white waves that glowed too bright, who had no mercy for him…

“ _Please!_ " He screamed, and immediately the fucking stopped, and he fell back down onto the cold, hard surface of the present, smacked into his body, shaking and on fire, unable to come. He panted, sound slipping out with every heave. Please. Please. Please, please… was he talking? Thinking? He tried to look up, look at anything, but there was nothing; no one to talk to - to beg.

“Don’t…”

There was a cold rush, and he shivered again, feverish heat allayed for a moment before it flared up in him again. His ass was so full. He could feel the muscles twitch, could feel his dick twitch, even in that tightness. He tried to move his hips, but he was so tired, so sore…

_...Artorias…_

Someone laughed.

“Don’t stop…” What was he even saying…? What was…

A soft rumble. Artorias bit his lip, tried not to whine, but he did. He did whine, he heard it, and it was humiliating, but he just wanted to _come_...

_Oh, Artorias..._

Let him come. Let him come. Please.

“Please… let me come…”

Something moved. He groaned through his teeth, snarled, and the appendages in him jumped, made him choke. The one wrapped around his dick let go, and he could’ve cried. Maybe he did, or maybe it was more sweat. He didn’t care. The monster pounded his ass and he relished the abuse, sounding off with every thrust until he finally, _finally_ felt sweet fucking release, hot and sharp and blinding. Nothing like he had ever fathomed, nothing like he had ever come close to feeling.

He struggled to remember how he’d gotten here. Where this place was. His name. Eyes searched the darkness, flickering… he swallowed. He felt so empty. So awfully empty.

Was he alone? He didn’t want to be alone… come back.

Come back…


End file.
